


Pride and Punishment

by sparxwrites



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Beating, Disturbing Themes, Gen, M/M, Masturbation, Michifer - Freeform, Other, Punishment, Sibling Incest, Spanking, Underage Sex, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-23 07:30:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparxwrites/pseuds/sparxwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fourteen year old Lucifer is prideful, curious, insatiable in his quest for knowledge, for understanding. Willing to ignore the hand of his shaky-to-begin-with moral compass in search of whatever it is he has his gaze set on at that particular moment.</p>
<p>It’s a trait that their father, Chuck, does not appreciate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pride and Punishment

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings** for underage masturbation, beating with a belt, sexualisation of said beating by its recipient, vaguely referenced attraction of a minor to his father/brother, and voyeurism. Please proceed at your own risk. This is probably one of the most disturbing things I've ever written...

Fourteen year old Lucifer is prideful, curious, insatiable in his quest for knowledge, for understanding. Willing to ignore the hand of his shaky-to-begin-with moral compass in search of whatever it is he has his gaze set on at that particular moment.

It’s a trait that their father, Chuck, does not appreciate.

"I didn’t mean to upset him," says Lucifer evenly, politely, grinning internally, as four-year-old Gabriel wails on the carpet, despite Raphael’s arms wrapped comfortingly around him, his older sister’s lips pressed against the golden curls of his head as she murmurs distractions and reassurances to him. "I was only answering his question."

This is Lucifer’s problem, Chuck thinks - he fails to see how his actions affect others, doesn’t bother to see the consequences they could have. Fails to see why, when little Gabriel asks whether their mommy is looking down on them from Heaven (tentatively old enough to grasp the concept of death, young enough to cling easily to the promises of salvation and religion given to him at Sunday school), telling him that in all likelihood the spirit dies along with the body, and that mother’s corpse is currently decomposing and being eaten by worms in the local cemetery might cause a negative reaction.

"That’s- that’s the  _problem_ , Lucifer!” cries Chuck, dragging a frantic hand through his hair and glaring down at his second-eldest child. “You need to learn that just because you don’t  _mean_  to upset someone doesn’t guarantee that what you say won’t upset them anyway!” He huffs out a sigh, glances over at where Raphael’s rocking Gabriel back and forth, shushing him. His cries are quieting slowly, but his face is still red and his eyes still wet with tears, breath hitching in his chest in that peculiar gasping fashion that means he’s been crying so hard he can’t catch his breath.

Lucifer doesn’t even bat an eyelid. “You can’t punish me for something I didn’t mean to do.”

The look on Chuck’s face goes from exasperated to irritated in under a second. He can cope with Lucifer’s occasional inability to understand that his actions have consequences, he can cope with Lucifer’s brattiness and manipulativeness and the streak of viciousness he has running through him - but he can’t  _stand_  the fact that, when he tries to explain it, Lucifer just looks at him blankly and doesn’t even try to understand. Doesn’t even pretend he’s listening.

Gritting his teeth, Chuck steps forward and grabs Lucifer’s shoulder, ignoring the slight flinch of flesh under his fingers, the way Lucifer moves like he’s not sure whether to recoil or lean into the touch. Chuck rarely touches him, is a very hands-off parent, and any physical contact - positive or negative - is something to be remembered and treasured.

"If you can’t behave like an adult," snaps Chuck, pulling him out of the room and away from Gabriel’s cries, Raphael’s accusing look, Michael’s disappointment, "then I’ll have to punish you like a child."

Lucifer’s mouth dries, heart leaping a little in his chest. He knows where they’re going, then - the study, Chuck’s study. The one none of them are allowed in, unless they’re in serious trouble. Obviously, he’s pushed his father just that one step too far this time. Shivering lightly, he stumbles to keep up, not wanting to be pulled along

Inside Chuck’s study, it’s… well. There’s no accurate way to describe the mixture of sense-emotion-memory that washes over Lucifer at the smell of old books and polish, the dimmed light from the blind-covered window, the little glints of amber on the mahogany furniture from the whiskey tumbler on the desk. It makes Lucifer’s heart clench, makes his stomach ache because this, this is what he associates with his father, this is what makes him feel closest to Chuck, and he can’t get enough of it.

"I despair of you, Lucifer," says Chuck quietly, picking up a half-drunk glass of whiskey he must have been working on draining before he was interrupted by Gabriel’s howls, and downing the rest of it in one go. He coughs a little at the burn of it, but swallows all the same. "I really do." Lucifer doesn’t look up from his feet, doesn’t need to - he can hear the slosh of more liquid being poured, the rasp of it being drunk. "I’ve worked hard to support you and your siblings after your mother died. I’ve put you through a good school, tried to be a good role model to you. And yet… no matter what I do, you just keep on taking liberties. You refuse to toe the line. And I’ve- I’ve had enough, Lucifer, do you hear me? I’ve had enough."

"Yes, father," breathes Lucifer, mouth dry, swallowing furiously.  
"Speak up," snaps Chuck. The slosh of more liquid, the rasp of more drinking, the clink of expensive crystal glass on the desk.  
"Yes, father," says Lucifer, trying to push down the bright blush spreading across his face. Chuck will think it’s one of shame, he knows, but even so…

"Well, you know what to do," mutters Chuck, eyeing the tumbler of whiskey like he desperately wants another glass but just can’t justify it. "Pants down, bend over the desk, come on."

Lucifer’s fingers are trembling so hard it’s difficult to manage, but eventually he gets the button of his jeans undone, forces the fiddly zip down, and pushes the denim off his hips. It pools heavily around his ankles, thick and restricting as he shuffles over to the desk - belatedly realising he should have moved before undoing his pants - and bends over it, the mahogany sun-warm against the skin of his stomach where his t-shirt’s ridden up.

Chuck grumbles something under his breath, and Lucifer’s throat tightens, because he can’t see what’s going on behind him, has no idea what Chuck’s about to do - when the first blow will fall. His toes curl against the plush carpet, nails digging in a little to the wood, and he licks his lip. “Father, I-“

_Crack_.

Lucifer howls with the first contact, the brutality and intensity of it because  _fuck_ , that’s not Chuck’s palm, that’s  _not Chuck’s palm_. He twists his head a little, sees the tail end of the belt flicking up into the air in preparation of landing again, and his breath catches in his throat even as he braces himself. He can’t decide if this is awful - oh god, the bruises, he’s going to be black and blue for days, unable to sit down - or fantastic - the marks, they’re going to last for days, he’s not going to be able to sit down for fucking  _days_.

Before he can think any more, the next blow steals his breath - and his thoughts.

He’s not sure how long it lasts, or how many blows fall. After the first five or so, the pain becomes hot, white noise, a blur of heat in his ass that sends him floating, sky-high, untouchable.  _Redeemed_. It’s fucked up, he knows, that it’s his father doing this to him, that he’s searching out this kind of comfort from his  _father_  of all people - but then again, his father hardly ever touches him, unless it’s to raise a hand against him. At the end of the day, he thinks viciously, it’s his father’s fault, for conditioning him to associate parental love with the pain and humiliation.

By the time Chuck’s finished, Lucifer’s trembling, eyes bright and wet with tears that he refuses to let fall. Chuck’s over-exerted panting as he threads his belt back through his belt loops and tightens it up at the front is echoed by Lucifer’s panting, albeit for a totally different reason.

"Pull your pants back up and get out," says Chuck, after a long moment, sighing and dragging a hand through his hair. When Lucifer doesn’t move, he snaps, "Go on, go!" and pours himself another glass of whiskey.

Lucifer scrambles to pull up his jeans, back to his father, eyes to the floor. Once he’s buttoned and zipped up again, the wetness is gone from his eyes, but he can’t slow down his panting or his trembling as he manages, “Yes father. Sorry, father,” as he practically lunges for the door, running to escape the room.

The door slams shut behind him, and then he’s tripping over Michael - apparently, his brother’s been hovering by the door, waiting, worried for his brother to emerge. He stumbles, nearly falls, and grabs wildly at Michael’s arms in an attempt to save himself, and ends up half-sprawled on the floor.

"You do it just to annoy Father, don’t you?" asks Michael, after a moment of simply letting his brother clutch at him to stay upright, raising an eyebrow at Lucifer.  
"Of course." There’s nothing proud in Lucifer’s slightly breathless voice, only flat acknowledgement as he stumbles back to his feet, brushing himself off.  
"Then smash something or steal his books or piss on the toilet seat. Don’t take it out on Gabriel."

Lucifer would be taking offense to the stern tone in Michael’s voice, would be laughing about the fact that the good son is suggesting he break things and is using the word ‘piss’, but his head is hung in shame. He loves Gabriel, loves his baby brother with all his heart - loves all his siblings, even if his regular battles with their father occasionally put them in the firing line. And what he did to Gabriel was wrong.

"…I know," he mumbles eventually, sobering briefly. "I’ll- get him something to make up for it after school or something."  
It’s not an apology, but Lucifer never apologises, not to anyone who’s not their father. “Don’t do it again,” says Michael, because not repeating a mistake is more important that making up for it, and then his face softens. He kisses Lucifer’s forehead, and pats his shoulder. “Go sort yourself out. Do you need a hand?”

"No, no," says Lucifer quickly, the slightly breathless tone returning to his voice as he ducks out from under Michael’s hand, already heading for the stairs and the bathroom. "Don’t worry."

Michael worries, even so. It’s been forever since Chuck last spanked either of them, and the noise from inside his study had been too flat, too heavy, for a hand. If their father has - god forbid, because Michael’s skin crawls a little at the thought, no matter how deep his love for and obedience to their father runs - used a belt on Lucifer, he could be seriously hurt.

He chews on his lip for a minute or so - Gabriel’s soft whimpers are still audible from the lounge, although Raphael seems to be doing a good job of calming him - before turning to the stairs and setting his foot on the bottom one, just to test the action.

A minute later, he’s at the top of them, and padding soundlessly on bare feet towards the bathroom. Lucifer’s stubborn, prideful, and won’t admit to being hurt unless Michael literally catches him in the act of letting the pain show through. It saddens him, that he has to sneak up on his own brother just to help him, but long experience has taught him that there is no other way to do this.

He stands soundlessly outside the bathroom door, leans forward, stops just short of pressing his ear against the door. There’s hitched gasping from within, something that might be a sob, and Michael’s stomach clenches - he hates hearing his brother in distress, hates that Lucifer just won’t accept his help unless it’s forced on him

Sighing, he pushes the door open, braces himself for whatever kind of a state he might see Lucifer in. His brother likes pretending to be tough, but underneath there’s a fragility, a sense of unbalance, that shines through whenever he’s hurt or vulnerable. Lucifer in tears is always shocking, but it’s something Michael can deal with.

What he sees through the fraction of an inch he opens the door before freezing, though, is not something he can deal with.

Lucifer’s pants are around his ankles again, boxers too, pooling to cover his bare feet where they’re braced flat against the floor. One pale hip is leant against the hip, head thrown back, long line of his neck exposed. All of which Michael can deal with.

The long, clever fingers Lucifer has curled tight, almost painfully tight, around his cock, and the ones on the other hand that are digging into the red-edged and already purpling welts on his ass, however, are a different matter entirely.

Michael tries to stay silent. He really does. He wants nothing more than to back soundlessly away and leave, leave Lucifer to… whatever this is, this strange, twisted sexualisation of the beating he’s just received  and forget all about it

There are some things it’s best not to know about one’s brother. As far as Michael’s concerned, the fact that one’s brother apparently gets off on being abused by his father is one of them.

The sharp, cracked noise of surprise that escapes his mouth is entirely involuntary, but audible nonetheless. For a second, inside the bathroom, Lucifer freezes - hand on his cock stilling, fingers digging even more tightly into his bruising skin. And then his eyes find Michael’s in the crack the door makes with the doorframe, and his hand’s moving again, twice as fast, breathing harsh and desperate.

A handful of seconds later (too soon for him to move away, look away, close his eyes, is what Michael tells himself) Lucifer’s coming silently, face twisted and eyes closed with dark pleasure, nails digging bleeding crescents into his own ass as his come stripes across his shirt and fingers. He sags against the sink, panting heavily, fingers still sharp against his own skin, and meets Michael’s gaze again with dark heavy-lidded eyes.

Michael flees.

That night, as Chuck falls asleep slumped over his desk, as Raphael sleeps on the floor next to Gabriel’s bed because her little brother is scared of the shadows, as Lucifer tosses and turns and dreams twisted dreams in the bed next to Michael’s in the room they both share… that is the first night that Michael dreams of his brother in a way that leaves his sheets soiled and dirty, and his whole body burning with shame when he wakes.


End file.
